


all on the edge (just like you)

by postfixrevolution



Series: sylvix personality swap... [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Innuendo, Light Angst, M/M, Personality Swap, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Unresolved Sexual Tension, the personality swap au no one asked for but i am VERY obsessed with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22265272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: "I'veplentyof experience with swords," Felix drawls, all sharp teeth and hooded eyes, burning like molten copper in the unforgiving blaze of the afternoon sun. They trail down the bare line of Sylvain's arms, shameless and slow, and his voice pitches low and practiced — a honeyed baritone crafted to trap the flies that flock to his rancid crest in droves, stuck in the sickly sweet syrup of his lascivious promises."Steel, silver, or," his gaze stops low, heavy around the set of Sylvain's hips, "something else entirely."
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: sylvix personality swap... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602745
Comments: 18
Kudos: 107





	all on the edge (just like you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryconke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/gifts).



> thanks for encouraging me cherry, i love u!!!!!!!!
> 
> some tweets that inspired me to write this au: [one](https://twitter.com/rattywizard/status/1217047444749291527?s=19) | [two](https://twitter.com/rattywizard/status/1216997489900810240)

It's high noon at the peak of summer when the training ground doors creak open, breaking the rhythmic cycle Sylvain had struck between his lance and the training dummy. He rests the tip of his weapon on the ground, reaching up to wipe away the sweat that collects at his brow as footsteps draw near, uncaringly loud as they scrape against the dirt floor. 

Sylvain knows who it is immediately.

"Why am I not surprised to find you here?" a voice chuckles, floating easily from behind him. Sylvain ignores it, rerunning his latest lance drill. The voice, as it always is, is undeterred. "It's our only free day of the week, and you're here training? Live a little, Syl."

With a huff, Sylvain turns around to face the unwelcome intruder.

"What do you want, Felix?"

"I can't spend a day with my best friend without being on the receiving end of his ire? You wound me, Syl."

"We attend class together every day," Sylvain groans, rolling his eyes. "The training grounds are for practice, and I really doubt that _you're_ here to practice."

"Who says I'm not?" Felix shrugs airily, folding his arms behind his head. His gaze drags lazily around the empty yard. He's right in it being a day of rest, and summer this far south of Fhirdiad has always been ruthless. It's obvious in the way Sylvain's hair sticks sweaty and slick to his forehead, jacket thrown to the side and sleeves rolled up to his elbows to stave off the heat. 

"If you were, you would've left me alone and gotten to it," the redhead scoffs, flicking a loose strand of hair from his eyes. "You're never serious about your training, and that lack of experience is going to get you killed one day. I doubt you'll be so cavalier at the end of an enemy's sword."

"You talk like I've never picked up a sword in my life," Felix snorts, amusement coloring the cheery timbre of his words. 

"I wouldn't be surprised if that _was_ the case." Sylvain means it as a statement of fact, an unspoken jab to start being _better_ , but Felix only seems to take it as a game, lips curling into far too wide a grin.

"Oh don't worry, I've _plenty_ of experience with swords," Felix drawls, all sharp teeth and hooded eyes, burning like molten copper in the unforgiving blaze of the afternoon sun. They trail down the bare line of Sylvain's arms, shameless and slow, and his voice pitches low and practiced — a honeyed baritone crafted to trap the flies that flock to his rancid crest in droves, stuck in the sickly sweet syrup of his lascivious promises. "Steel, silver, or," his gaze stops low, heavy around the set of Sylvain's hips, "something else entirely."

It's the same tone that Felix has learned to direct toward every young maiden looking to catch the Fraldarius's heir's eye, playful enough to make them avert their own gaze, rose-cheeked and so effortlessly charmed. They're always oblivious to the way that Felix Fraldarius's electric copper eye has never been caught by _anything_ , least of all every pretty head of hair who has thought they could be the restless philanderer's only exception. The light that glints in his gaze has always been harsh and impossible to ignore, mistaken for sunlight when all you can do is squint against it — but Sylvain has stared before, seen spots in the shape of the cruel thing that hides beneath his best friend's eyes.

That tone has never worked on him. 

Sylvain twirls his training lance beneath his arm, drawing his _very_ _real_ sword in its place. The polished blade flashes in the space between them, a seamless arc of glinting silver that ends right beneath Felix's chin. He swallows at the press of cold metal against his skin, the bob of his throat causing the sharpened point to dig deep enough to make his eyes widen, letting something real finally slip through the cracks in his facade.

He holds the blade deathly steady, tilting Felix's chin up and dragging those wandering eyes with it. When their gazes meet, Sylvain glares, lips pulled into a scowl.

"My eyes are up here," he snaps, "unless you're ready to lose yours." 

The threat is punctuated with the barest increase of pressure against Felix's throat, unable to help the flicker of satisfaction that curls in his stomach when his breath catches. Felix is quiet for only a moment afterward, hands held up in mock surrender before he tucks the expression away. He puts on a smile instead, the one that twists his lips just as pretty and sharp as Sylvain's stomach at the sight of it. That smile has always made him sick.

"And let you be the last thing I see? Maybe it'll be worth it," he purrs, and Sylvain retracts his sword with a disgusted scoff, turning away. 

"I don't know why I try talking sense into you, Felix. You're insatiable."

Felix hums idly as Sylvain sheaths his sword, gaze palpable on the back of his neck. "I can think of a few things that could sate me," he offers, voice tinted with an ugly mockery of innocence, one that Sylvain knows him too well to ever believe. 

When Sylvain rounds on him again, it's with his lance, fingers white-knuckled around the shaft. This time, Felix isn't surprised by the dulled wooden edge that hovers before his throat. If anything, he looks amused, and that thought only drives Sylvain's scowl deeper.

"I'm not some girl that'll tolerate your flirting for a good lay," he hisses. "If you're not serious about your training, get out."

"You _know_ why I'm here," Felix tells him, and Sylvain's stomach tightens at what might come next, head already swirling with every flirtatious remark that has fallen from his lips the second he arrived. Felix seeks out his gaze, hungry and _insatiable_ even down to the way his copper eyes always chase after Sylvain's, trying to latch onto that sharp hazel stare. Sylvain refuses to meet him, staring down his lance to where it hovers at Felix's throat, far steadier than the shudder of his heart in his chest. 

"I _don't_."

"I already told you, Syl. I'm here to spend a day with my best friend. Can't spare a few hours away from training, even for me?"

"No."

Felix, as ever, is undeterred.

"Oh come on, we're friends, aren't we? Let's go to town for a bit. We can look at swords, find a few girls. You've gotta choose, Syl — me, or your training."

Sylvain's scowl deepens, but he lowers his lance.

" _Are_ we friends, Felix? If we were, you'd know my answer to that." Sylvain meets his gaze now, just in time to see the flash of hurt that strikes quick as lightning in Felix's eyes. 

He's always been impenetrable — hardened against every set of claws that tries to dig into him, to claim him and his crest as their own — but that's what makes him so easy for Sylvain to read. Sylvain has never had the sharpened claws of his brother, made to dig deep into flesh and bone and _take_ , greedy and untamed. 

With Felix, it's always been palms flat and fingers splayed, like stolen moments as children with his hands and face smothered against the unrelenting warmth of Felix's chest. Even now, Sylvain looks at him with his hands held open, catching what spills freely from the cracks in his armor and never prying greedily for what doesn't. That's where Felix's facade always comes apart, always forgetting to hide the things he's forgotten he still has the right to feel.

It's like clockwork, the way Felix summons a picture-perfect grin to cover it up, like smiling can make either of them forget it happened. With the way that grin breaks the silence, it almost feels like they did.

"Don't be like that," he laughs, fraying ever so slightly at the edges. Sylvain can't look at him, glaring at the ground as he crosses his arms. "What's a few hours, between friends?"

"If you have the time," Sylvain begins, eyes pressed shut, "you can pick up a sword, or leave."

The dirt underfoot crunches as Felix steps forward — he's never cared enough to soften his steps, always so _loud_ in presence and approach — but Sylvain doesn't open his eyes fast enough to stop Felix from breezing past, stealing the sword right out of his sheath. There are times where Sylvain forgets how quick he can be when he actually tries, but even that speed means little when Sylvain has spent years on the practice of just reacting, lance spinning to knock the blade from his hands before Felix even has the chance to look smug. 

Copper eyes watch him for a thunderous second, caught somewhere between charging forward and a strategic retreat, but he's visibly inexperienced — the catch of his gaze on the discarded sword is far from subtle, telegraphing the way he leaps for it before it even happens — and Sylvain catches his legs with the butt of his lance, toppling him in a maelstrom of limbs and scattered dust. 

For some reason, he has to bite back the urge to sigh.

"I've made my choice. Unfortunately for you, it's my training." Sylvain steps around Felix as he picks up his sword, hearing him groan as he drags himself back up. "If you're done, leave the training grounds for people who are serious."

He turns his back with a sense of finality this time, one that pools heavily at the bottom of a hollow chest. Sylvain knows there's no need to watch Felix pick himself up, not when he's seen enough of it growing up — shaking arms and fingernails curled into the dirt after Glenn has knocked him down again, still managing a smile as he stands and dusts himself up. There had been a bright fondness to the clash of Glenn's sword against Felix's back then, one Sylvain knows he'd given up the right to the moment he'd chosen his lance over his own friends. 

Felix's footsteps sound again, this time growing further away with each fall. He doesn't bother to offer a goodbye — not that Sylvain bothers to acknowledge that — and the day ends as it begins, with the heavy creak of the unoiled training ground doors. Sylvain falls into the practiced routine of his lance drills, and the measured slash and step of it is constant and steady enough to stand in for the rhythm that's supposed to keep time for his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/panntherism) >;3c

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(traveled two hundred miles) i'm knockin' at your door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410529) by [euphemea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea)




End file.
